Bait
by Konstantinsen
Summary: Elisif wanted to take a break from her duties as Skyrim's monarch. So when she did, she found that she was not the only one who also needed a break.


Elisif could never have wished for a better alternative than standing on her balcony overlooking the Sea of Ghosts and the shores that it lapped against. This breathtaking view, almost never ceasing to amaze, was her best escape from the humdrum of the daily affairs that taxed her steward as much as it taxed her.

It was exhausting. An exhausting month. An exhausting week. She wanted to sprout wings and fly away to the Throat of the World where the first snow fell on Skyrim. She wanted to glide over the never-ending expanse of ocean that stretched the distant ancestral lands of Atmora. She wanted to…

"Oh, bollocks. I ran out of bait. Do you have any to spare?"

…pass by three strange men angling off the Solitude docks while on her morning stroll.

"Here. I have some old salmon that I forgot to cook," the second replied in a rather ghostly tone, handing an oiled and decomposing slab of meat.

"Now that will bring in the slaughterfish," the third remarked with a low chuckle.

Elisif stopped in her tracks. Her whole entourage of escorts did so as well, looking to where she was gazing at until they themselves felt their jaws go slack.

Three men sat hunched over the pier, their fishing lines hanging above the water. A near-empty pail of what seemed to be their bait sat close by under a cloud of flies. Oh, and a dog was resting its legs against the one on the furthest right, lazily dozing off while its ears perked up every now and then.

What drew her to them, though, was the fact that all three were adorned in the most…unique…regalia she had ever seen. Even her personal guards were a little addled by what they wore and inched closer to her just to be safe.

"Thanks. Ugh, the smell gets to me. How long have you had this under the sun?" the first one asked as he pierced bits of the rotting salmon to his hook.

His familiar voice suddenly struck her. This was him. This was the man, General Tullius' most decorated soldier, the legate who held off Ulfric's Stormcloaks in Whiterun, eventually leading the Siege of Windhelm that (on the surface) ended this bloody civil war. And on this morning, he was dressed to fight another war. A blacksmith by trade, she heard, he had forged his armor out of the remains of dragons, the pale ivory curves showing scratches and dents that had failed to penetrate its natural thickness. His iconic mace, made from a dragon's claw and ironically believed to have been used to slay innumerable dragons, sat comfortably beside his service shield propped against a barrel.

She often envisioned him leading the vanguard of the Legion armies having heard both tales and official reports of his services. And now she saw him yawn as he tossed his angling line into the water, his horned helmet tipping back and forth as he cocked his head to the side.

"I don't recall. It was sitting in my pack for about a week," the second one in the middle replied. His rather ethereal voice was offset by the banal remark.

Elisif saw that this one was draped in a darkly mysterious attire. She had never seen anything like it before. Adorned in what appeared to be leather reinforced with steel blackened so much that it was like forged midnight. Thick gloves and a hooded cape draped over his head and back covered everything so much that it was impossible to see any bare skin. A black arrow-filled quiver hung over his shoulder alongside a large blacker bow forged from ebony yet glistening with a radiant heat.

"And it took you a week for you to finally smell it rotting? Did you put in ice or what?" the third chided. Only this time, he spoke in a deep rumbling voice..

When Elisif turned to look, she felt her blood slightly drain from her face. The third individual… He was entombed in armor as dark as the second man's midnight cloak. Jagged spikes and horns jutted out of his helm and cuirass in irregular patterns. A bright crimson hue glowed incessantly between the joints, shimmering with a mysterious intensity that would put the fear of the gods into even the vilest creation. Tiny red orbs glistened from the joints, a terrifying battle axe strapped tightly to his back. She squinted to make out the reliefs of skulls carved onto the axehead.

Could it be? She wondered whether or not she was seeing with her own eyes… Daedric armor in all its nefarious glory.

Tullius' legate laughed much to his dog's annoyance. "He probably couldn't smell it in the first place what with all that other hunks of meat in his knapsack."

"Aye, those are much worse!" the Daedric-wearer roared snidely. "How can you not forget to clean your rucks every now and then? I mean, seriously, do you just pick up random trash and throw it in your bag just to see if it fetches some coin from some merchant?"

"Hey, I have a habit of taking things, alright?" the second one barked back. "Besides, you never know. Maybe a tankard or two may have a gem in it?"

"'A tankard would have a gem in it?' What are you, a junk merchant?" the legate jeered.

"Reminds me of that Dunmer trader on Solstheim," the third man remarked. "'Meet me at midnight,' he says. 'Sometimes things fall off the back of a cart,' he says. 'I find them, clean them, and resell them,' he says. Well, when I checked there wasn't anything special!"

"Hey. Old habits die hard," the hooded one barked back.

"Yeah, yeah. That's what they all say," dismissed the legate.

There was a moment of silence as the three men continued to angle over the pier. Elisif looked to her guards. They were standing rigid, on alert, as though one of these three would suddenly pounce or do something that would provoke immediate action. She was about to clear her throat when…

"Hey, do you have anything else to do today?" the Daedric man inquired in his low cracked voice.

"No. Not really," the other two replied.

"Well, then. Could you help me weed out my garden? I swear the weeds keep growing back every time I come back to my farm."

"How long are you often gone?" the legate asked.

"A week at least. Though a month would be the longest I've gone without visiting the crops."

The hooded one huffed. "Did you try sprinkling some grounded void salts around the mounds? That should at least salt the weeds. Might even keep most of the maggots away."

"I haven't tried that. Maybe when I get some, I'll save a few."

"So after this, we go to your farm?" the legate confirmed.

"Aye. I could use some extra hands. With winter tide coming in, I need to get all the vegetables in storage before frostbite hits."

"Alright," the hooded man said. "But I get some too. You know, out of principle."

"Yeah, yeah."

Elisif was by then easing away from the pier and back onto the road to her palace up on the arch. If anything, this was an interesting start to her day. She guessed that everyone, no matter how odd or how defining, could use a bit of a break. After all, if the High Queen of Skyrim frequented early morning strolls across the frozen shores of her hold, then who else would take up mundane habits just to get away from it all?

Them, apparently. Besides, if there was something the dragon-bone legate, the shadowy figure, and the Daedra-wearing man had in common, it was probably fishing. And maybe even some gardening.

Two weeks later, Elisif started growing some deathbells on her balcony window sill.

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 **LAST EDITED: June 9, 2016**

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: June 8, 2016**

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 **NOTE: This was partially inspired by my friend who once took me to the mall so she could buy mint seedlings. She wanted to grow her own garden.**


End file.
